The Redeemer
by Verok
Summary: Alternate Universe. Frodo's resilience caves in at the end of the Quest and he claims the One Ring for himself - and Sauron's dark forces capture him and throw him into the bowels of Barad-dur.
1. The End of Resilience

The Redeemer: Chapter One *An End to Resilience*

Rating: PG-13 (for intense thematic material and explicit scenes). May be upped to an R.

Genre: Angst/Drama/Supernatural - may have some romance later on. A story concerning Frodo and Sauron, spinning off an alternate end to ROTK. There is no slash or anything of that nature involved.

Disclaimer: I don't own a single hair off the head of any of these characters, nor am I writing this fic for personal benefit. All of the names and etc. belong to JRR Tolkien, creator of Middle-Earth, so don't hire a lawyer and drag me to court.

A/N: This is my debut piece on FF.net, but I'm not telling you this so that I can receive special treatment of any kind. You readers may treat me in any fashion you deem acceptable to your taste in the review column. I come from a free nation and I believe strongly in freedom of anything, so review and flame at your whim. Any of the latter will be used to fuse the loose fringes of my nylon ballet tutus. Also, if you happen to think up any good constructive criticism or plot suggestions, feel free to give a speech. My apologies for a boring-as-hell first chapter; I write in the style of long, complicated plots and things don't exactly develop until some ways into the story. And lastly, my most profuse thanks to all who have endured through my first piece of Lord of the Rings fanfiction writing.

Second A/N: I have not often seen a fic that changes how the book ends, and even fewer that deal with Sauron the Dark Lord up close. And as LOTR did not exactly end up the way I wanted toI thought, what the hell

And now, let the madness commence

The Redeemer

"More lies within one's soul than the world perceives; and the one who misunderstands that soul most is himself."

- Anon.

An End to Resilience

Frodo stood at the rim of the fiery chasm, two unnaturally blue eyes staring lifeless and blank. Fathoms below his feet vermilion liquid hissed, churned, bubbled and seared in all its fiery glory; the ground shook continuously, and sharp jagged rocks tumbled and cracked from the walls down into the bright oblivion. He had sought this hellhole for long agonizing months, spent in bleak toil, hardship, dark despair and suffering - and now, against all odds, here he was, just a step and a toss away from Doom. It was, indeed, his own doom that he was ere to spell out. The Doom of him, the Doom of men, the Doom of elves and dwarves and Halflings alike; the Doom of the World and of All. It was a doom that both beckoned to him and frightened him.

_So many memories, gone. So many people and lives, lost. So much beauty ad peace which he knew would also perish into the floes of Time. And all his happiness, forever made a delusional dream of the past._

This had been the toll the Quest of Mount Doom had taken upon him, and, oh, how he wished it had been otherwise. How he wished he could end this needless suffering.

Then why was he hesitating?

Frodo's chafed hands strayed to the Ring, and callused fingers closed about it. The metal band writhed and seethed in his tightly clenched palm. The Ring, obviously, had a mind of its own, and it was far more intelligent than many meager things that also lived and had minds and thoughts. It knew what was about to happen to it. It knew, and it didn't want it to happen. It didn't want to be tossed into the Cracks of Doom, to be unmade, disintegrated, dismantled, its power let to scatter to the wind. It was the closest it had ever been to his Master. Why was the Halfling so stupid? Why couldn't he just give it _back_ to his Master? 

_Just throw it in, you fool_.

Determination and desire warred for control in his blood, and Frodo felt as if a whole chorus of voices were speaking into his tormented mind at the same time. Voices screaming to make him throw the damned trinket in and finish everything for good; and other words, soft, tantalizing, but poisonous, promising unlimited power, wealth, and domination - if only he would spare the Ring its intended doom, and claim it for his own. He clutched the gold band as tight as his muscles would allow; and a trickle of blood, a darker and a more intense red than even the fire of the Mountain, flowed from where his fingernails broke into his skin and dripped hissing onto hot ground - a stark contrast from the ghostly pallor of his complexion. The Ring also sensed conflict in Frodo's mind; and it too fought within itself. And two powers warred for control as well: loyalty to its Master, and against it lust for the Halfling Ringbearer. Indeed, it knew how much power Sauron had, and it felt good to be connected to that power, to be used as a conductor for that delightfully black sorcery to course through, like a current. But the Halfling, it saw, also possessed a singular thing that Sauron, its Master, would never, ever come to possess in all his ages upon the world. Frodo had an unusual resilience against the Ring's fatal seduction, the strongest it had ever encountered - and that resilience was a power that, although the Ringbearer had no idea of it, equaled in some respects even the supposedly invincible forces of Mordor. 

That power had been born from Frodo's purity. Purity in the wearer was something the Ring adored; for it relished in destroying that virtue, slowly, torturously, surely over time. Purity was the beginning from which all else sprang, in essence the very fuel that corruption needed. And the purer the beginning, the more thorough the corruption. Frodo had the most of it, of anyone who had worn the Ring - which was why the Ring had also desired to bind itself to Frodo when it first got fingered by the Halfling. But soon, the Ring discovered that Frodo's purity was anything but of the kind it wanted. Whereas others were made of ice and snow, dirtied, mired and melted away easily as a small rain or a muddy footstep, Frodo Baggins was a Simaril, a stone of Adamant - just as flawless, but hard, unassailable and immune to any outside force. The slow work of the Ring was only a mere layer of filth upon the outside; though it thickened and built upon itself gradually, nothing penetrated the inside, and the core of his soul remained untouched and unspoiled as it had been before. Then as time went on the Ring realized that it could not permanently mar its bearer as it had intended. So it resorted to dirtying and scarring his outside, hoping against hope that ultimately the filth would become too thick and solid to remove, that his purity would be forever obscured - and that his mask would force his soul to corrupt itself, like diamond breaking diamond.

The Ring was powerful; and the Frodo Baggins that now stood at the Cracks of Doom was unrecognizable. His appearance had been sullied and blemished; his face was blank of emotion. Only his eyes remained, for they were the windows to his real soul, but they burned with such a vengeance from the evil influence of the gold band as to combust any living thing that dared look directly upon them. He was oblivious to the sharp throbbing pain as his skin was torn by open his own nails. Nor did he notice the strange, bittersweet taste that had entered his mouth, or the pounding of his ears. The hiss, cackle and rumble of Mount Doom was enough to deafen, but Frodo did not hear any of it. He had his own battle to wage. Half of him wanted to obey the Ring, and the other half remembered the task he had bound his life to. He was torn exactly in two; no one side had edge over the other. And so he stood there, as straight and firm as a stone scepter; and struggled madly in himself while the forces threatened to rip, destroy, and tear him apart in their fury.

_Throw the Ring in, you fool, throw it in! _

Take me Frodo, take me for yourself. Claim me for yourself. I am yours, and you are mine. You know you want me.

The Hand of Doom awaits. Throw it in and all shall end, and all shall be glad. Do it, fool, for the love of Eru Iluvatar! I command you!

I know you cannot bring yourself to do such a terrible thing. Destroying such beauty and power is a terrible thing to do. Do you wish to see the former glory of Middle Earth fade into eternity? Do you want yourself to pass on into some shadow land, forever forgotten by these mean crawling creatures they call Men, while you could have been the Ruler of Middle-Earth, equal in stature and standing to the Valar, blessed with unfathomable power and inexhaustible life, the one and only Lord of the Ring?

It corrupts you, Frodo Baggins. Cast it forth and destroy it before it can harm you any further. You know what you must do! You must do this!

Everybody has lost things that are precious to them. Though they strive to find a way and redeem what they have lost, Fate is irreversible. But all that is an illusion, Ringbearer. Bind yourself to me, and in turn I shall manipulate Fate for you until it is the way you desire it. Together, we can bring back many things that have been lost in the past...we may correct things so that they never should have happened...

"There is nothing I wish to change!" a shrill voice cried out, and Frodo's free hand flew up and clutched at his throat. That voice had been his own. "I have lost everything, and yet I desire not to change anything. Things cannot be changed!"

_You lie to yourself, Frodo Baggins. You _do_ want this to change. You do not even know the true extent of power that I hold within myself. So you have lost everything? I shall regain everything for you. Stopping and reversing the great wheels of Time are only some of the things I can do..._

_No, Frodo, the _Ring_ lies. It has always been lying. You have not lost everything yet...there is still something to live for. Somebody to live for. Somebody who you've treasured more than you've known..._

"Mr. Frodo!"

Samwise Gamgee cried over the deafening din and roar of Orundin, his shorn, flaxen hair whipping about in a harsh gale. He stood barely ten paces behind his master, struggling to hold his footing as the mountain bellowed its fury.

"We've made it, Mr. Frodo!" shouted Sam. "Now all you have to do is throw it in!!"

Somewhere within Frodo, a piercing brilliance came shining out, breaking momentarily through the dark mask he wore. The voices died. Involuntarily, the shaking hand left his throat and it fumbled with the clasp of the chain that held the Ring. Undone, it slithered down and was caught deftly; and Frodo nearly dropped it when his hand stopped its fall. It was burning, having expanded to twice its original girth; and oh, it was so, so heavy. Heavier than he himself was. Yet Frodo still clenched it tightly in his fist, and if he had opened up his hand and tipped it palm-down, he fancied the Ring would still cling to him, like a magnet. Nor - oddly - did he want to give it up just yet.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam repeated, panic registering in his words. "Has it taken hold of you? Why are you waiting like this? Throw it in, Mr. Frodo!"

Frodo could not bring himself to do it. He simply stared at Sam, the Ring still in his fist, and Sam finally admitted to himself that his master was deranged. He stared back at him, dumbfounded, silent tears welling up and dripping down his sooty face.

There was a long-drawn pause, then Frodo finally stirred. Tears were in his eyes too — and a voice echoed again throughout his mind.

__

there is still something to live for. Somebody to live for. Somebody who you've treasured more than you've known

Somebody to live for

You have not lost everything yet

"" then it dawned in him. "Sam!" Frodo squawked, and he burst into tears, sobbing madly. His knees gave away and he slumped to the ground, feeling an overwhelming torrent of shame possess him. "Oh, Sam"

"Master!" Sam cried, and rushed to Frodo's prostrate form.

Frodo opened up his hand and the Ring dangled from the chain. He screwed himself up and eyed it with a glowering stare of hatred, and his fine eyebrows were arced thunderously. His resilience had overcome.

"I don't want you, you stupid thing!" he yelled, out loud, and his voice ricocheted around and around the stone chamber. "I don't want you!!" he repeated, and he sprang up to his feet, as if in a gesture of defiance to Sauron and Mordor. "I am giving you what you've deserved, all the past Age!! Embrace your own destruction!!" Then, swiveling to face the Crack, he revved his arm back, and prepared to toss the Ring in, but — 

"MR. FRODO!!!"

Frodo was not fast enough to turn around. All he heard was a sharp hiss, a pressure on the back of his leg as somebody stumbled and ran into him, and a sickening _wham_ accompanied by a bloodcurdling shriek. When he did whirl about, he saw a sight that made his very skin crawl. Sam was slumped pathetically on the ground, blood flowing in rivulets from the crown of his head; and being him stood a grotseque, slimy creature, with fish-like eyes, arms raised oevr his prey, bawling at the top of his lungs. Gollum.

"Smeagol!!" roared Frodo, a violent surge of anger erupting inside him. He felt a heat flash in his eyes.

Gollum advanced upon Frodo. "We wants it, yesss, my _precioussssss_!!!!" the creature seethed. "Nasty hobbitsss, we wants our preciousss _BACK_!!!"

Frodo stumbled back and shook his head furiously, eyes bulging. "It's not your precious!" he lashed back. "Get your filthy hands off Sam! I'm" he struggled to articulate his words as Gollum crept ever closer to him. "I'm throwing your _"Precious"_ IN!!" Then, without looking back, he dangled the Ring over the open chasm.

"PRECIOUSSSSSS!!!" Gollum shrieked, lunging at Frodo, and in a whirl of brown curls the hobbit was slammed violently to the ground. Frodo's head and shoulders stuck over the ledge of the Crack, while the arm, with the Chain of the Ring interlaced in his fingers, was flung back precariously above the spewing fire. Gollum clawed and clamped a hand over Frodo's throat, as his other arm snatched repeatedly at the dangling object.

"WE WANTS IT!!!!" Gollum screamed. Frodo hacked and choked as air was denied from his windpipe, but then he mustered all his strength and tore free, roaring in retaliation and trying madly to strike the creature back. All he succeeded in, however, was wiggling himself farther and farther over the edge.

Without warning both of them were dealt a stinging kick that sent them rolling over. Gollum howled and a sharp nail flung up and slashed Frodo across the shoulder, drawing blood. Frodo furiously blinked tears back and saw that Samwise had sprung to life again. If possible, he looked madder than either two of them; and the sight of his own sweet servant transfiguring into a fury-crazed animal terrified him.

"GET OFF HIM!!!!" Sam bellowed. Suddenly the weight on Frodo's chest vanished as if by magic, and the next thing he knew, Gollum was being dragged back by a furious hobbit, yowling and thrashing. Then came a yell from Sam as teeth sank into his hand, and both tripped and tumbled, on top of one another. A mad fight ensued.

Frodo tried to move, but it felt as if clamps were put all about him, and he froze in place, watching on in horror. Sam and Gollum were screaming war-cries as they sparred on like two made things, striking each other, kicking each other, trying to strangle each other with their own bare hands. He saw as Sam attempted to fling Smeagol against the hard stone walls, only to be foiled repeatedly as his adversary would find some means to bite some extremely vulnerable and sensitive area. Sam then would backhand Gollum across his slimy face, but the creature would simply strike him back with twice the force. Of course Gollum was older by far; and his lifestyle with hunting down and strangling things for dinner gave him far more experience when it came to dogfights. Only a few blows had been exchanged; a few frenzied moves, some kicking and clawing, yowling and screeching, and Sam Gamgee was already loosing. Although Sam had started on top of Gollum, Gollum had always found ways to reverse their positions; and now the former was floored, pinned to the ground, struggling against the creature to no avail. They rolled around and punched each other in fury, while the Mountain shook and bellowed; and yet Frodo remained paralyzed, staring horrified, still not recovered from the aftershock of his own quick standoff with Smeagol. For a moment the Ring lay forgotten, leashed to his fingers by the chain.

"NobodyMaster Frodo!" Sam spat, in between grunts and gasps. "Don't even _think_about trying to get that filthy Ring back!"

"It's _my_ Precioussss!!" Gollum snarled back, and he dealt Sam a nasty blow on the temple. "Ergh!!if the nasty hobbitsss won't give my precious back, we'll make him pay, yesss!"

Frodo's heart leapt to his throat. _Make him pay?!_

_Stupid Halfling, you have the One Ring of Power clenched in your hand, and all you do is sit there while your best friend fights your foe for you? Are you shameless enough to simply let events play themselves out? Your servant is a terrible fighter, and he shall lose against Gollum. Put the Ring on, you idiot, and help him!_

No, Frodo you fool, no sacrifice is too great for the Quest. Pull yourself together and throw the Ring in! It answers to Sauron alone; it will never help you!

Damn the elves and their advice. They are weak. They do not admit that the One Ring is a greater power than they are. How many elves have been Ringbearers, anyway? What are even the holders of Nenya, Nilya and Narya in comparison, when not one has ever borne the One Ring_? Frodo, you are an even more powerful character than those pathetic Quendi. Don't listen to their Council. You have power within you, and I answer to any power, not just one_

Shut up! Shut up! Listen to ME_, Frodo! If anything is damned, it's that Ring! You believe it, and it has corrupted you beyond our aid! Frodo, if you love your world, just do it, Elbereth Githoniel above!_

"What more is there for me to love, besides Sam?" Frodo whimpered in response to the voice. "He is the only one I have left."

__

Then do it for the love of Sam! He has also devoted his life to this quest; do you want him to perish in vain? If he dies, finishing the Quest he has given his life to is only fitting —

Sam does not have to die, fool! Is death_ the way you repay him? If there is anything fitting to repay him with, _help_ him, idiot Halfling, don't let him perish needlessly -_

"Wha – " Frodo choked, utterly bewildered and lost; then a heartrending cry sent the voices fleeing from his mind. Sam was nowhere in sight. Horrified, Frodo leapt to his feet, then saw his servant, hanging at the edge of the chasm from his fingertips. Gollum was stomping on his only supports and every time the creature landed on Sam, the latter cried out in agony and slid another increment away from the ledge.

"No, Mr. Frodo!" Sam gasped, when he saw his master. Their eyes met for an instant; and Frodo's pupils dilated in terror when he realized the dullness in the gray orbs of the latter pertained to resignation. "Don't help me, Mr. Frodo – just do what _you_ have to do. It doesn't matter what happens to me now!"

Frodo recoiled at Sam's chilling words. He was still immobile, mind blank with shock, and the Ring still dangled limply.

"Please, Mr. Frodo, I beg you!" Sam entreated, hot tears of pain coursing down his face. His legs were getting singed from hanging in the fiery Crack.

Gollum snarled once more and ceased kicking Sam's fingers. Sam quailed, stricken with terror, as he read the triumphant expression on the creature's face; and Smeagol knelt down and covered Sam's hands with his own. Sam knew what Gollum was going to do.

Smeagol smiled, the first ever smile he had given in hundreds of years; and it was a cruel, mirthless smile. "The hobbitsss shall _pay_," he cackled, and he paused for a split second, relishing in the silence. Then in one swift move he shoved Sam over the ledge.

There was not even enough time for Frodo to scream. A mere split-second elapsed and just as Gollum turned his back a pudgy hand shot up and by some miraculous means managed to seize the creature's ankle. Gollum roared as he fell, slipping away to the very edge; and as he did Orundin bellowed and a hill of flame lashed up, consuming him, who shrieked and then released his death-grip on the ledge. With one final "AAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!", the squirming form that was Gollum, wreathed in flame, fell down into the Crack and disappeared entirely from view. Before Frodo could run to the Crack a tremendous shaking racked all of Mount Doom, and he was thrown off his feet; but then as suddenly as the chaos had started things were suddenly quiet again.

Frodo pushed himself shakily into a standing position, eyes swimming, head spinning. _No, no, this could not have been true. It couldn't have happened. _Gollum had hit him so hard that he had passed out, right there on the ledge, and this was all some horrific fantasy he was experiencing in an unconscious state. The throbbing of his still-fresh cut on the shoulder, though, told him against all incredibility and denial that it was all true. Gollum had attempted to attack Frodo for the Ring; and Sam had placed his body in front of him; defending him. Sam had gotten knocked out; then Gollum fought Frodo; but before he could strangle him Sam again rescued him. Then the two had fought, while Frodo had been lost in his world, fighting against his voices, and Sam had been pushed over the edge by Gollum, only to reach up and drag Gollum down with him as he was falling to his death. And both had been, without a doubt, incinerated in the Cracks of Doom.

Frodo staggered to the chasm, which was now oddly still, hands held stiffly in front of him as if he was blind. In his ears there only was heard an odd sound of ringing; his knees shook, and dagger-blades were being thrust into his heart. Sam. Dead. _Sam was dead_. Frodo had seen him die with his own blue eyes, and at the last moment, when he had stood up to help, Sam had turned him down. So that he could sacrifice himself, and finish off Gollum, the one last threat to the completion of the Quest, with him. A horrid burning dryness reigned in those sapphire eyes of the Ringbearer, and an even more horrid lump was tearing its way up his throat. And then the tears came. Frodo sank, wailing, clutching the terrible pain in his chest, wetness dripping off his face without abandon, and he knelt at the very edge of the horrible chasm where his friend had met his death. Sam was dead, dead, dead.

"Oh, Sam," he cried out, his voice ragged. "Oh, Sam! What have I done to you? What have I done? Why did this have to happen to you? And of all places — oh, Sam — you had to perish, right here, where all things end, in the Cracks of Doom! Ohoh!" Screaming, sobbing, gasping, Frodo rocked back and forth violently, attempting to dispel the hellish sickness that raged in him. Something spontaneously gurgled up into his mouth, and he bowled over and retched — a mouthful of dark, red, brackish blood. A teardrop landed in the midst of the splotch, and some of the fresh blood turned the color of rust. 

_No sacrifice is too great for the Quest, Frodo Baggins. Pull yourself together. Send the Ring to its rightful doom. This is what Sam instructed with his last words for you to do._

Frodo took no heed of the voice, only sobbed and coughed compulsively. 

_Sam did not have to die, Halfing. Nor do you have to let things be this way. Now have you lost everything? And now do you wish to change what should not have happened? Sam did not deserve to die. Together, Frodo Baggins, we can bring him back, you and I. And we can also bring back the wretch, Gollum, and send him back to death the way he deserved to die by — not a quick burning — but everlasting torture. Do you want justice, Halfling? Do you want correction?_

Frodo still sobbed, but his sobbing had quieted down some.

_Still the Ring lies. It will never help you recover Sam, Frodo. It only wants you to keep it so that it may be sooner tracked down and returned to its master!_

Do you still heed the pathetic council of the Eldar? It was their advice that doomed Sam to his unjust fate. It was their advice that tore your world apart for you. With the words of a Ring of Power, Frodo, nothing can go wrong. Trust me, Frodo. I am yours, and I serve you. I will expel your misery, right your wrongs, and give all I can create to you. I will return Sam to life, and I shall damn Gollum to Hell.

Frodo stopped sobbing.

_FrodoI will return Sam to your side_

and I shall damn Gollum to Hell

I will return Sam

I shall damn Gollum

No, Frodo! The Ring ensnares youit corrupts youit ensnares you

I will return Sam to you.

Sam.

Sam.

Sam!!

Frodo slowly lifted up the Ring. It shook along with the delicate hand that hoisted it up. Oh, what an object of beauty. Such simplicity. Such grace. Such power, embodied within it. Just a simple, elegant, gold band. And all the might of Arda lay within it.

_I will return Sam to you._

And I shall damn Gollum to Hell.

Trembling fingers caressed the ring, so delicately it was as if the fingers feared touching it. ""quavered Frodo, "I"

_I know you remember what Sam said to you. He wants you to destroy the Ring. But if you take me, Frodo, and use me to redeem him, he shall never grudge you disobeying the last words of his previous life. He will be glad that you disobeyed him. Who does not want a second chance at life?_

And Gollum shall learn that the Ring never truly belonged to him

I will return Sam to you.

And I shall damn Gollum to Hell.

The last shred of any resilience left within the hobbit snapped. Tears running rampant, shaking madly, Frodo slowly slipped the chain off the Ring. The thing was no longer burning; it was warm, pleasingly warm, and it had become small enough to fit Frodo snugly. As if in anticipation. 

Almost as in a final prayer, Frodo lifted his eyes to the Heavens — all that he saw was a ceiling of jagged rock, but it mattered not. The Valar would be able to see anything. The Ring was in his left hand; his right ring finger was extended.

"Oh, Eru," Frodo whispered, so softly as if he feared to hear his own voice; and he gulped. "I beg you help me." And then, shutting his eyes tight, he slipped the gold band on.

The world around him, amazingly, did not dissolve. Instead it remained, and it began to grow in clarity — getting sharper — sharper — sharper — so sharp and clear that Frodo's eyes seared. He felt a sickening sort of feeling blossom inside him, consuming him to the very fingertips and toes, elevating him mind, and slowly, as if his legs had turned into lead, he stood up. He no longer shook. Yes, it was sickening, butwas itpower? And all of a sudden, Frodo knew the sickness that they called Power. It felt as if he had all of Arda, what lay above it, and below it, under his thumb. The feeling was that overwhelming — that wonderful. And Frodo actually savored it. His eyes grew wide, and, even against his own volition, a cruel smile tipped at his parched lips. Was this really what it was like — to be the Lord of the Rings?

And even though it was a faint as a breath in a still wood, Frodo felt it. A slight chill, horribly familiar, entered his backside, and if it were not the new stature the Ring had bestowed upon him, he would have shuddered. But he did turn around. And he saw what had given him the chill. Behind him, advancing upon him, wreathed in black, in all their putrid glory, the Nazgul of Sauron.

The former Frodo Baggins would have succumbed to terror instantaneously, in that moment; for he was a hair's breath away from the ledge and would have toppled backwards into the Crack. But the Frodo that had the Ring, simply, turned around to face them in full; and amazingly, he drew himself to the tallest height he had ever stood at, and looked back at them in defiance. He had no reason to be afraid of them. They were only wraiths who owned the Nine Rings of Men; the Nine Rings which were under the dominion of the One. And now, Frodo the Halfling owned the One. And before Frodo could even gather control of himself, his voice spoke out — and he was subconsciously horrified of it, for it had changed into the terrible, stone-harsh wont of a mighty Noldor Lord. 

"Give your farewells to the Shadow!" he cried in command, squaring his shoulders. "No longer do you serve Sauron. For now you serve me, the new bearer of the One Ring."

If the Nazgul were capable of emotion, they would have been somewhat frightened, briefly, at that moment. But Frodo still had yet to learn the true extent of the power of Sauron's wraiths; and for the Nazgul, this Halfling that commanded them was not real Ringbearer, a pitiful match for their Dark Lord. Instead they gathered themselves and laughed, coming to Frodo's ears as a high, shrill, venomous shriek; and they simply advanced upon him.

"Our master is Sauron," they hissed, "and no other master we have. To himwe shall take you, Halfling!"

"Sauron is no longer your master," Frodo retaliated, but a hint of terror began creeping back into his words. "I am your master. And youare not taking me anywhere!!"

"To Barad-dur, we will take you!"

The One Ring had deprived Frodo of his common sense; for if he had not been in its clutches he would have given up his impression and run right there and then. All Frodo saw was some sort of a cloud forming in front of him; as soon as it gathered it turned from black, to smoke gray, and then to red; and before he could even register what was happening to him it charged forth. Thousands of arrows seared right through his chest. The sheer force of the curse sent his hair into a billowing gale, and his gray cape whipped harshly, fluttering like a rag. Ah, pain, beyond pain, and Frodo screamed, screamed and screamed, so loudly that it was perhaps heard by the Riders out on the plains of Rohan. The vision blurring before his stung eyes, his limbs going numb, his face convulsing in agony. All he heard was a hellish rushing, like the din of the floodwaters of Bruinen, and the cacophony of explosions and shattering glass panes; his eyes saw nothing but spectacular bursts of colors and blurs. Then a lightheadedness overtook him. The sounds and sights disappeared, leaving only the pain, and the sheer weight of the Ring upon his fingerand the black power of Mordor consumed Frodo completely. He gave one last anguished sigh, and night fell before his blue eyes. 

A/N: Faintly related, hot off the press - MAJOR SPOILERS - TheOneRing.net reports that the current running time for The Two Towers film stands at 3 hours and 14 minutes. And the Battle of Helm's Deep is 50 minutes, give or take. Plus, they've really filmed an Ent battle! All right!

A/N: Thanks again to all who have given their precious time to reading my first chapter. I am scrambling on the second installment. Until then, kudos! ~ Verok


	2. Bind Yourself to Me

The Redeemer: Chapter Two

Bind Yourself to Me

Rating: PG-13 (for intense thematic material, explicit description of "depressing" scenes, and what not). May increase to an R.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this stuffand as for the stuff that I made up, well, it technically owns itself.

A/N: My appreciation to all those who have read and reviewed. In answer to their requests, I present The Redeemer, Part Two, and I have scrambled as best as I could on it. I am dearly sorry if I took too long, too, because I am simultaneously working on other fics as well (check my bio, and you'll know what I mean). Regarding Chapter One, everybody, you have not seen anything yet — that was only a scene, a vignette, which induces the main plot of this fic. The fun begins here, for in Chapter Two we officially start the _real _story. 

And so, let the madness commence once again

The Redeemer, Part Two

Bind Yourself to Me

A harsh stab of pain sliced through the confining blackness and the blue eyes snapped open. Light flooded into Frodo's swimming vision, blinding him, burning him — and despite being riddled with unimaginable fatigue, he blinked, once, his long black lashes grazing his cheek. It was impossible for him to think, for his mind was as if reduced to a think, dumb glue. He couldn't feel any part of his body, either — feeling, quite practically, as if he were reduced to only two eyes, able to see, but able for nothing else. And if it weren't for the tortuous stabbing that still ravaged what was felt to be his midsection, Frodo didn't see any reason for believing that he had not already forsaken his limp corpse, and had fled to Heaven above.

Heaven. That one word, instead of lingering for only a mere moment and slowly draining away from his ears, stayed, as a ghostly echo — and that ghostly echo at length refused to leave. It resonated throughout his blemished body, rebounding and ricocheting, getting louder, louder, louder, and ever louder and clearer every single time it recycled itself — until it repeatedly roared at him, with a voice equal to that of the Rauros Fall's thundering, shout after shout after shout after shout. And every time that word was screamed, Frodo's thought-to-be unfelt and unseen body went riddled with unthinkable agony. And suddenly, a terrible weight was suddenly dropped down onto his finger — a searing — and Frodo finally remembered, and contracted an unheard gasp. The Ring was still on his finger.

No way could it have been Heaven that awaited Frodo Baggins. Everybody, everybody that he knew and recalled, and had known of the Quest and his peril, had wanted him to destroy the Ring — and that assessment held few exceptions. And Frodo would have wagered anything, without thinking, that they would have allowed him to go to any lengths, just to accomplish that task. Even if that meant sacrificing their lives, any of their lives, all of their lives. And Frodo had betrayed them all. For the Ring still survived, and was still upon his finger, now in his formal possession — and Frodo did not even know whether he was still at the Cracks of Doom, or someplace worse. Most likely, he had been taken by the Nazgul — who knew? perhaps even into Sauron's stronghold — and indeed, the only afterlife he deserved was Hell, and an eternal Hell. He was sure that Sam would most certainly condemn him to such an eternity, if Frodo's fate was ever his to decide. 

But why was it all light and brightness, instead of the shadow and flame it was supposed to be?

Frodo sat bolt upright, and as soon as he had curled up he uttered a howl of pain and sank back down onto his back, one arm clutching his chest. The feeling rushed back into his body, his limbs, and the logic into his head — and, with both indescribable relief and resentment, he realized that he was certainly not dead at all. Not yet. And just as he had awoken, the blinding brightness, the light, the airiness, fled, leaving a dark and foreboding surrounding. 

A shaking hand slowly lifted itself up, and Frodo twisted about to see the band of gold, burning as bright as if the light of Iluvatar itself shown from it, the swirling Elvish runes etched into its surface shining out from an unfathomable depth. It was so, so heavy upon his hand, making his arm muscles ache in the mere act of sustaining it while holding it up. Frodo bit his lip, and a single tear appeared in the corner of his eye and slowly dropped down his face, so pale that blue veins streaked their ways up and down his cheeks. What was the Ring supposed to do for him? When he had first put it on, yes, he had felt its power, coursing through his little body, making him feel simply invincible and unbeatable, able and willing to stand up to anybody that dared pit himself against him — but now, he only felt loss, a horrible emptiness inside him, a feeling of dejection and lowliness. Where was the inexhaustible power and might it had promised to give him?

And at that moment, something slowly entered back into Frodo's mind, and he took a deep breath. What was he supposed to do with the Ring? He had no idea to use it, and he was at an utter loss, whether to leave it on or to take it off. If he left it on, why, Sauron would know exactly where he was, no matter how far he fled; and if he took it off, he would be technically powerless, vulnerable and completely unprotected from all the forces and fury of Mordor. Then what? But suddenly, the Ring, as if reading his indecision, became even hotter — and without warning it contracted, gripping Frodo's finger with an iron grasp, like a walnut stuck in between the jaws of a wrencher — and a sudden worry seized him. The Ring had never clung that tightly to him. 

So, Frodo reached over with his other hand, and tugged at the gold band. When it refused to yield, blind panic overtook him, and he grasped his finger hard and pulled, relentlessly, mercilessly. And still the Ring did not come off — and Frodo was perhaps closer to dislocating his knuckle, nay, tearing it off his hand completely, than to making the band slip off. 

It had fused itself onto the Halfling's finger. 

Frodo slumped down again, and panted. He did not know whether to be shocked or frightened — wasn't the Ring supposed to still possess a yearning for its maker, Sauron, even while it tried to seduce and ensnare others that were drawn to its power? And nobody had ever told him that a Ring of Power sometimes chose to cling to its bearer, and refuse to be removed. But — could that mean — between Sauron, the Dark Lord of Barad-dûr, and him, Frodo Baggins, a halfling of the Shire who had only possessed it for two and some years, it chose _him_?

The sudden, strange encouragement caused energy to flood back into Frodo's body, just as its feeling had returned a moment ago — and slowly, stiffly, Frodo climbed into a kneeling position and stood up, on one foot and then the other. He was standing in a chamber — a dark chamber, with menacing walls of black that were hewn out of what seemed like obsidian, carved and etched over completely with strange, evil-looking symbols. The spot he stood on, and the spot he had been lying on, was a circle, bordered with gold lines — and from it, in all directions, on the black ground, extended streaks, geometric patterns also bordered with runes, giving the central circle an unnerving, terrible, yet obvious significance. Then Frodo realized — the runes and markings were some sort of dark magic - and he had been held under it. And then he realized also — only after the Ring had awoke on his finger, had fused itself on and had seared, did the spell slowly lose its grip on him. And though he did not even notice before, the pain that formerly racked all of his body was now completely gone. Frodo lifted his hand, which was shaking — and looked once more at the object, shining so beautifully upon his long, slender finger. So the Ring _had_ helped him — and, taken by an unprecedented rush of unexplainable fondness — no, it could not have been fondness, for it was too powerful, so overwhelming — it was love — Frodo lifted up his hand, and inclined down his handsome head, and kissed the Ring with his pale pink lips.

He was too sunken and intoxicated in this sudden new lust that the ethereal sensitivity the Ring had given him failed to kick in. With a blast and a shake that rocked the very ground of the chamber, nine tall figures entered from nine separate portals, hirtheto unseen, and advanced upon Frodo in an ever-tightening circle. Frodo felt his heart give a sudden sharp palpitation, and he looked up, whirling 360 degrees upon the spot he stood at as the Nazgul drew closer. It was not fear that motivated the pummeling in his chest, but surprise — for they were unhooded and uncloaked, and now revealed their true forms to his eyes. It was certainly the Ring again that made him see. They were not black, as they appeared when they had pursued him and rode upon black horses so long ago while in the Shire — they were now white, a white that was only possible for a ghost or a phantom to possess; and their faces, rotting, scabbed, skins clinging to a deformed skull underneath, leered at him, fangs glinting and bottomless eyes glaring. And in their hands, they carried swords — the exact same swords that Frodo had remembered seeing them carry at Weathertop — points facing him.

Finally the terror blossomed within him, and Frodo breathed, in and out, in and out, sharply and heavily, wrapping his arms about him as the demons drew closer and closer. The Ring twitched upon his finger — and before Frodo knew, against his own volition, he was extending his arm out, and drawing his tiny body up to a fuller height than he had ever imagined — and the Ring glared brighter and brighter, emitting a sphere of white light that completely surrounded him. And a throbbing momentum began building up in Frodo's body — slowly at first, but gradually faster and faster, stronger and stronger, as if he were hurtling towards some climax — and, just as the Nazgul poised their weapons, and thrust the long swords at him, the heat within him exploded and the Ring caught fire upon his finger. Ripples of white, ripples of searing light, with a great rushing and roaring, whirled and rolled outwards from the trembling Frodo; and with a detonation that rocked the very foundations of the chamber they stood in, the Nazgul were pummeled by the shockwaves and hurtled with unthinkable force and speed back against the throbbing black walls. The Halfling's lungs seemed to collapse, then re-inflate again violently, and with a great gasp, a hand shooting up and clutching at the outstretched throat, the waves rebounded, crashing back in upon the bearer, and with a final rock was concentrated and sucked back into the band. Frodo swayed slightly, wide eyes gawking at his precious — and, as suddenly as the Ring had given its outburst, or, rather, fueled Frodo's outburst, its heat vanished and the runes disappeared off its face. 

The Ring would not let the Nazgul touch its Bearer. 

The Nazgul were no less shocked than Frodo; and as they staggered up, they did not even advance upon the Halfling anymore — they simply stared at him, all the menace gone from their decomposed faces — almost as if they, incredibly, feared him. That outburst from Frodo, had, frankly and truly, equaled Sauron's power in its intensity and might — and as for Frodo Baggins, he stared at the Ring — his Ring — and he finally knew that the Ring had not lied to him, when it had begged for him. Truly, it had given him power — and with it, it had given Frodo a courage, a daring, that had quickly reinstated itself. And, even surprising himself, he threw his head back, his brown curls dancing about his face, and he laughed, laughed and laughed, his high, clear, and oddly, terrible yet beautiful, voice, rose and filtered up throughout the lofty chamber, echoing and rejoining its many reciprocals in a grand symphony — washing throughout the air, streaming through the dim shafts of light that filtered from the unseen ceiling. And the Nazgul, overwhelmed, terrified at last, retreated to the far extremes of the room, as far a distance they could place between themselves and the Halfling within the black walls.

"The shadow shall not avail you!" Frodo cried, and his voice soared and seemed to come from all directions at once. "Your Ring does not respond to Sauron anymore. It has chosen me, it has decided to serve me, and not your master — and so I, not Sauron, now have power over you. And approach me not again unless I wish it so — lest you wish for your own destruction!" 

And Frodo's eyes glared so bright and furiously, the flush of his cheeks returning so lifelike and red, the Nazgul shielded themselves from his gaze, falling prostrate on the ground — they had submitted themselves to their new master. 

Yet almost, as if feeling the foreign and near-dangerous presence within the walls of the chamber, one of its doors burst open yet again, this time with so much force that it sent the Nazgul sprawling again and nearly succeeded in knocking Frodo off his feet. Then a darkness engulfed the entire scene, and a reeking evil entered, extending endlessly from it like the infinite rays of Arnor — and a terror like none other suddenly put its grasp on Frodo. Slowly, shaking, he pivoted around on his bare hobbit feet, to face the new intruder — and as his glittering cerulean eyes lifted up increment by increment, to look and see what the new presence was — the Ring gave another jolt and burned again to life. And when Frodo finally locked his gaze, upon the presence, all his senses fled him, and he stood, arms limp at his side, in both total horror and total awe. The sight before him was both horrendous, and beautiful — beautiful in such a horribly cruel way, its sight felt worse than the stab and icy plunge of a Morgul-knife — and the two red catlike eyes, shining from their depths and shroud of foul shadow, swept aways and gazed back upon him. Finally, Frodo truly had ascertained what had happened to him, where he was, and who he faced — and he swallowed. 

He had been taken deep into the bowels of the Fortress of Barad-dûr, left in the evil chamber, its spell holding him as fast as any dungeon lock could ever contain him. Yet he had woken, and had defied and defeated the Nazgul, and had managed to break away from the enchantment completely with the help of the Ring — alerting and drawing, as if by a summons, another one into the chamber. And before him stood Sauron the Maiar, the Dark Lord of Mordor, Liege of Barad-dûr, in all his black, terrible glory.

End part Two

A/N: Riiiiight, now l lied, the story still didn't go anywhereWell? Did you like this? I know it is extremely illogical for the Ring to have spontaneously fused itself to Frodo's finger, but that actually sets up a viewpoint for him that will be crucial for the plot's development. There is a reason (and a scientific explanation) behind that phenomenon, though I don't think it'll be revealed anytime soon — perhaps at the very, very end of this story. No, probably at the end of its _sequel_. Yep, I've already planned a sequel, aren't I crazy? But then again, it's up to you reviewers to decide whether you want this story to have a follow-up at all not. Hell, a trilogy, anyone?

But if you're really observant, and you've read my two chapters carefully, perhaps you may pick out the reason why the Ring helped Frodo. 

A/N: And for those of you who were confused on why the Ring did not originally protect Frodo from the Nazgul's spell at the Cracks of Doom, he had not been afraid then — and the Ring kicks in only when it senses unease in Frodo. And Frodo was scared when they tried to kill him in Barad-dûr. 

Final A/N: f you've enjoyed this, please do take a look at my other LOTR fics — _The Carnival of the Sovereigns, A Tale of Lothlorien Woods_, and _A Game of Chess_. Next chapter coming soon. Until later, Kudos! ~Verok


	3. To Be Denied a Gift of Men

The Redeemer: Chapter Three

To Be Denied a Gift of Men

Rating: PG-13 (I still don't know when to make it an Rpossibly never)

A/N: Thank you profusely for all the big reviews coming in — some of you people also mentioned that you're reading an other fic of mine that sort of ties in with this, "Letters to Ithilien". Chapter Two, titled "Without An Explication," will come along in a matter of three days, tops. And now, with your ever present pleas and demands, I present The Redeemer: Part Three

Let the madness commence yet again

The Redeemer

To Be Denied a Gift of Men

If Frodo did not have a One Ring of Power, clinging to his middle finger as if it were an iron nut fused onto a rivet-head, he would probably have died of his own terror in that moment. Of all situations that were possible as the result of his doings on the Quest, and of all situations he were primed to avoid, he simply had to have run headfirst into the very worst. And indeed, nothing could not have been worse for the Halfling of the Shire — and the dull sear in his sapphire irises told the one who looked at him what mere words could never have. 

What Frodo had heard of, and expected to see, was something totally devoid of form — in other words, a spirit, a shapeless, bodiless thing — its only whereabouts marked by abstract shadow, or a total blackness — or, simply, a cold, chilling fluttering of whatever living thing's heart, and the freezing of the blood, when it was in proximity. Yet, before him stood, not a mere formless presence, or even a ghostly likeness to a body — but it was a being, flesh and bone and skin and everything, clothed and wreathed in black robes lined in a bright yet macabre blood color, swirling slowly by itself in some virtual gale. There were two slender feet, clad in ebony-bright boots, its toes culminating in bayonet-like metal points; and the hobbit's gaze slowly dragged itself upward, to the bindings at the knees, seeming both so crude and forceful, yet with even a subtlety to it, and the monstrously sinewy thighs. A thick metal gaiter, with a cruel-looking buckle, held the billowing robes to the being's iron-like form; and Frodo still looked upward, slowly, horrified but inexplicablyawed. Two arms, two slender clubs of steel, its right one holding a long scepter topped with a steel skull — and finally, he studied the broad chest, encased in a silver plate dashed with runes — and, where the head of Sauron belonged, there rested a horrific cast-iron helmet. It had looked no different from the painting Frodo had stumbled upon, in the halls of Imladrisso long ago, it seemed, an entire alien Age awayhorns, slashes and bars, the nose-piece nearly invisible, a work that looked at the same time terrifyingand so cruelly awesome in such a profound sense. But what was most terrifying of all, were the eyes — the two narrow vertical slits in the metal mask — where a fiery red gleamed, or, to better put it, jetted out with furious intensity, as blinding as the rays of Arnor upon midday. And yet, Frodo Baggins, a Halfling of the Shire, barely half the height of the Dark Lordcould look back into his eyes, and train his gaze back. Whether in fright or in defiance he held his stance, though, Frodo never could figure out. 

Such red, he had never seen before. Such pure, powerful, burning, searing bright red, swiped with wounds of black. Wreathed in flame, these eyes were, exulting in black powerand the catlike pupils trained back on the round ones of the hobbit's, in retaliation for his mere daring to stare upon the Lord of the Earthin challenge. 

And why, and for what, was Sauron the Mighty challenging a mere mortal?

In that moment, to Sauron it seemed, Frodo's eyes seemed to dilate. They were already, even without the Light of the Ring, so unnaturally blueno mortal that he had ever looked upon exhibited eyes of that color — and indeed, no immortal, not even, unbelievably to him, Varda, or Elentari Manwë, or Melkor, or any Valar, had such breathtakingly blue eyes. And, to his wonder — and terror, incredibly — they brightened, and brightened, and became even more blue, and blue, and glaring blue — until they themselves were blinding in their fury, and their piercing luminosity defied that of the Simarils of Morgoth. Pure sky could not have been that blue, that bright. And, indeed, Sauron, staring into that — mere — mortal's — eyes, first felt a warm sensation in the back of his own orbs — but then, it slowly escalated into a stinging, and a burning, and a fizzing, and, finally, an unimaginable, unthinkable searing. A great rushing sounded — and then, Sauron the Mighty, violent passion seizing his blackened body, erupted and spilled forth the fury that had burst within him, and a terrible surge of flame and blood-redness materialized and threw itself with full force upon Frodo, the Hobbit. And, finally as the hurricane leapt forth, a roar that shook the foundation stone of Barad-dûr tore free from the throat of Sauron.

Frodo's eyes were burning, too — and right as the full might of the tempest pummeled into him, he felt a titanic raging and writhing upon his middle-right finger — and, opposed to all free will he had ever possessed, his own voice sounded out, screaming harshly in the deafening din, not in terror, but in well-waged comeback — and his blinding blue gaze went unwavering, and he bared his teeth and gritted his jaw like stone as the winds set his auburn curls and gray garments into furious flight. A white light issued from the gold band — and, from his terrifying eyes — then with a vengeance he wrecked his compelling countercurse upon Sauron. 

Barad-dûr groaned and swayed, and the Lord of the Earth staggered under the incredible force and was rammed violently into the back walls of the chamber. The light-plays were killed with a flash; and Frodo uttered a horrified gasp and staggered back himself, talon-like hands clawing on his collar, the whites around his irises visible and his eyebrows seized up in ecstasy - and a single hairy hobbit foot went upon the long hem of his cloak and he was tripped backwards onto the cold stone with an echoed _thud_.

Sauron uttered a growl of surprise and slowly, with the _ping_ and scrape of metal upon metal, righted himself and staggered into equilibrium. Frodo panted and scrambled up to his feet himself — and, this time, scooping up the hem of his robes, he backed, in the likeness of a sleepwalker in a dream, all the way to the extreme side of the room. As for the Dark Lord, he was utterly shocked — utterly shocked, and shamed — that a mere mortal Frodo Baggins was supposed to be had managed to best him with a spell of his own.

But, waitSauron's flame-wreathed gaze wandered, for he sensed something strong, something powerfuland something familiar. Then he saw it, gleaming with the flash and glitter of well-polished gold. His own Ring. Ah, no wonder.

"Give back what is mine, Halfling," hissed the Dark Lord, and his voice, seeming to have many tributaries and different branches, almost, whirled around the dark circular chamber, appearing to come from all directions. It was a voice that would have sent armies of Men fleeing, the many vultures upon a skeleton tree squawking and flapping away — but it failed to quail the unassailable confidence, and the sheer pride of victory, that had gathered itself in the Halfling's heart.

"If you want your Ring, come and take it from me!" offered Frodo, in a retorting hiss — and his wont had become no less impressive and horrific as Sauron's, because of the Ring. "It belongs to me, now — and it shall serve no other but me ever after."

A low emancipation of air escaped the metal helmet of the Maiar. "I am its Creator, Halfling-fool," snarled Sauron, and he raised his skull-scepter. "And as Creator — only Ican bend it to my will. For I am the one and only Lord of the Ringthe only oneand Ido not share my POWER!!"

The scepter's head was hurled at Frodo. 

The Ring, suddenly, seized Frodo's ring-finger again — and, this time, amazingly, acting as if it were tugged or pulled by some invisible string, it shot up, forcing Frodo's arm to careen along with it — and it so burned that the hobbit clawed his hand in pain. Just as the spell came hurtling towards him, in perfect coordination, came the Ring, and his arm and hand in tow — and with a great clashing sound Sauron's curse met some invisible obstruction and rebounded away in the direction it came from. And right as it had come back to the one who had given it life, Sauron beat it back again, and Frodo again swiped it away, sending it once more to Sauron — as if that curse were a bird-ball, and the two were playing a fast and furious round of badminton, whipping and striking it back and forth across the spell-chamber.

"YOUSHALL NOTRECLAIM YOUR - _RING!!!_" screamed Frodo.

"FOOL!!" Sauron screamed back, and, finally tiring of the preposterous ballgame, he took off with a flying leap, soaring across the chamber in mid-air, hand outstretched to take the Halfling's throat. 

Then, Frodo did something that was perhaps the most courageous thing ever to be done by a mortal — and definitely the stupidest thing ever to be done by a mortal. He took a deep breath, and charged straight towards Sauron's oncoming form — and with one magnificent jump he had hurled himself headlong into the face of the Dark Lord. The Ring finger was poised on an outstretched hand — and, with a tremble, a flash jetted out from the band, and struck Sauron straight in between his two slit-like eyes.

The ensuing din was horrendous. Frodo heard the sharp tearing and wrenching of elements, and a splitting crash he likened to the multitudinous shattering of an entire cabinet of china plates that had been toppled over forcefully — and with an explosion, comparable to a fiery belch from Mount Orundin, he saw Sauron's helmet, with his own eyes, break asunder and be blasted into many sharp, black shards. 

But, at the same time, or perhaps a split second after he had witnessed the helmet destruct - he saw a green light, surging towards him, and before he could even register it, it had totally engulfed him. A tremendous burst of fatigue consumed his body from fingertips to toes, drowning his voice, stalling the shriek that was about to be borne from his throat — and an icy hand placed its grip upon the insides of his chest, squeezing something — stopping the pulses of his heart. And, as if in extreme, extreme slow motion, Frodo, deprived of any whatsoever feeling, sensed a sudden ethereal lightness overtake him — and, degree by degree, limp arms flailing, legs faltering, he tipped back, and back, and backwards — then, after what seemed like some silent eternity, lingering in this grizzly green world, hovering and hung in the very air, he was cast upon the cold ground with a horrible heavy _thud_, which gradually echoed away into nothingness. Yet, he had not felt himself be thrown onto the floor — and, quite unexpectedly, he thought, or felt, as if his two eyes slowly turned themselves up — before they drifted, and soared upwards, higher and higher in the chamber, this wonderful floating sensation of nothingness gracing his entire form — and then, a faint realization seizing him, he glanced down. Upon the black stone floor, cloaked in the gray elven-cloth, utterly pathetic, was his own body — and his hair was fanned all about him in a limp attitude, limbs sprawled, mouth now white and set in a severe line. And his blue eyes were closed — closed. 

Finally, then, he knew. He, Frodo Baggins, had been subject to a spell of Sauron — and, in his defiance, he had been killed by that spell, which had been that green rush of light. And now, he was most certainly dead, completely and truly dead. 

And yet, interestingly, sensation once again seeped, slightly, back into his fingertips. And he saw, upon the hand of his cold cadavre, the Ring — still on the finger — and it had started glowing again, becoming a bright yellow, until it winked like a star at him, far below as he the wraith hovered near the very top of the chamber — then, finally, when the Ring finally had brightened so much that it illuminated the entire macabre scene with a dim, gold glow, he felt a titanic force suddenly tug violently at him, and with an unexplainable magnetism he was drawn back down, towards his cold dead corpse — hurtling with a sickening speed.

A jolt twinged the cold heart to life, and it thumped, once — heavily, like a drum beat. And then, again — _thump_. _Thump, thump, thump_. Fire riddled his head, out of nowhere; and an overwhelming deluge of sensations immediately flooded back into the inanimate body.

The blue eyes flew open, and the black eyebrows raised and then lowered themselves. A slight breeze, the faint breath of life, set a few ringlets dancing. Fingers spasmed, then released, stretching convulsively, and a great rush of air sharply inflated the crushed lungs. Then the body gasped, and, a current of tremendous energy coursing through it, it rebounded and sat up — propping itself up on its working elbows. He had died, and had somehow been resurrected.

__

And the One Ring of Power would not even let Death_ conquer its Wearer_.

Frodo Baggins leapt to his feet, with what energy that was newly given him; yet, when he looked once again upon Sauron, he jumped. His bones were not turning into water, as they were previously — he jumped. He had never imagined that Sauron would appear such, deprived of his helmet — oh, no, he had never expected for Sauron the Dark Lord of Barad-dûr to look like an elf. And a cruelly, stunningly, staggeringly beautiful elf, at that. 

Long black hair - plaited — hung down in a waterfall behind two pointed ears — and a light seemed to issue from his deathly white skin. The cheekbones and jaw were impressively obvious — and he had a nose that strongly reminded Frodo of Lord Elrond, and Lord Celeborn — and his former companion Legolas Greenleaf. Two eyebrows were lowered severely, and thick black lashes graced the spinel-red eyes, shining so brightly and eerily — and, as for the lips — they seemed stained with blood, darker even than the eyes in hue — and, almost, so wondrously enticing, like the sugar-coated cherry tarts back in the Shire. 

"Sauron," Frodo could only heave, and, gritting his teeth, he stepped back.

The Dark Lord contemplated him through his scathing gaze — and it held, unmistakably, the fire of anger — and the dull luster of resignation. 

"And you still live, Halfling," he spat, his low voice menacing.

A cruel smile convulsed at the hobbit's pink lips, and Sauron the Great and All-Powerful felt a faint stab of fear at seeing the cruel, derangedexpression of delightful mockery.

"And I still live," replied Frodo, soft laughter punctuating his short retort — and he raised the hand of the Ring, and held it high and forth, watching Sauron's lust-crazed eyes sweep over what was his. What was once his. "You cannot kill me, Sauron, Lordof the Earth. The Ring has chosen to serve _me_."

And, finally, Sauron saw that what the Halfling had said was — regrettably, but inevitably — true. He snarled, his voice gurgling, and then, in retaliation, he smiled also — this time making Frodo shake.

"And so I cannot kill you," he echoed. "And yet this is exactly what I have wished for, my dear Halflingfor indeed, in the end, when I am through with you, you shall have damned your own self to Hell for having forsaken your brief opportunity at the Gift of Men. I can make you beg for your deathFrodo Baggins."

Frodo quirked an eyebrow, the smile still lingering upon his face — and he raised his chin, and tossed his brown curls. 

"Try and make me beg, Servant of Morgoth," said he.

Sauron bared his teeth — and a low fire came raging into his eyes.

"Nazgul!" he cried. "Take this Halfling and cast him into the dungeons —"

But then, suddenly, a better idea crossed Sauron's mind. He smiled again.

"No" he trailed off. "Show ourto his quarters."

Frodo simply kept the maddening smile on his face — and ere the Nazgul, limping, stumbling, rose to their feet, he simply twitched and raised his Ring finger in a careless attitude of command — and the Ringwraiths cowered and shrank back against the walls. Sauron could not believe his eyes.

"Idiots!" he screamed. "_Imbeciles!!!"_

"Do not listen to that creature, my Ringwraiths," purred Frodo — yet still smiling. He cocked his head and shifted slightly. "I shall protect you all from him, if he ever thinks of harming my new servants."

Sauron's look of shock turned swiftly into a look of utter hatred — and then, thinking the better of it, recounting the very recent experience that he had just had — he simply cloaked his stormy thoughts with a second smile, and raised one robed arm. 

"My" he intoned, and his voice now sounded as gentle and as syrup-smooth as Elrond's. "May Ishow you to your quarters?"

Frodo grinned at the behavior Sauron exhibited, and the hand that wore the Ring closed tightly upon itself. "I would truly be honored," he murmured back — and Sauron captured, with his red eyes, the momentary flash and glitter that had darted in the cerulean eyes of the enigmatic new Bearer.

And so, with the gentle swish-swish of soft fabric gliding upon hard stone, Frodo the Hobbit slowly walked, striding, out of the chamber — and let the Dark Lord Sauron's emancipating aura of power guide him behind his back to his destination within the wings and towers of the Fortress Barad-dûr. And oh, how hethis new life. 

End Part Three

A/N: Ha! No short of an inexplicable phenomenonthe will of Eru Ilúvatar himself — nah, forget I ever said that, that isn't true (but the truth IS something close to that!). Once again, the explanation shall be unfolded late on in this fic, or in the sequel. But indeed, if it were possible for Frodo to be killed, why, there would be no purpose to write this story. However, the Ring isn't exactly _that_ powerful, that it denies even death — more like, Frodo has touched upon something he has never encountered before. And it sets the plot up even furtherbut, to people who are really, really very prone to fantasizing — this shall never, ever be a slash Frodo/Sauron pairing. You will have to A.) threaten me with a sword and/or machine gun, or B.) place 1 million USD in cash on the table to make me write of such a pairing. Oh, eww and ick, cannot even think of it without gagging. I have a weak stomach for this sort.

And, oh, if any of you are so generous and kind that you would give a few extra minutes, I would be eternally grateful if you sidled over and took a peek at my newest fics, "Convergence of the Banners" and "Isuëlt, My Isuëlt". The former is a political drama about Legolas, the latter, about Samwise Gamgee and Eowyn (freak pairing!!). And both are somewhat lacking in reviews — I have nice twisted premises all done out for them, just the problem is, without people reviewing them, I lose my desire to expand their plots. If I see your name in both of their review columns, I shall personally honor you with a secondary role or cameo in one of those two, or another fic, "A Game of Chess", for there exists a need for plenty of supporting people to churn up their plots properlygive me your ideal name, review, and I shall fit you in. 

Which brings me to say, Melanie and Helga, you girls have already won an appearance. Where, I don't know, butPerhaps you can figure out why :) You two have to give me your ideal names, thenbut no Japanese Anime thingies, like Sailor Sakura, you heard me, Helga!

Eep, ah, evil evil school, I start on the cruddy Third of Septembernext chapter coming in one week!

Verok


	4. Not a new chapter - an Announcement from...

An Announcement from the Author

I'm losing inspiration quite fast for this story. I've written perhaps 11,000 + words, and in return, I get probably a handful of reviews. You know that feedback fuels my Muse — and if there is no feedback, well, chances are, my poor Muse will starve to death, or be too listless to be creative. If you truly want this story to go on, leave a review in the review column and I shall reconsider putting this on haitus — and perhaps I shall continue writing it. But of course, if reviews don't materialize, well then — I'll just delete this off FF.Net anyway, and save up some of its precious hardware space for more popular and more-demanded stories. 

Thank you for understanding.

Verok


End file.
